


Making Room

by Sarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade never thought he could have this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Room

He's had an unbelievably crappy week and Lestrade's tired. He really should just go straight home and go to bed. He wrestles with his better judgement, but finds himself heading in the direction of Baker Street anyway. He's used to occasionally stopping by to visit Sherlock after a case; nothing like the man's dispassionate viewpoint to help him put some emotional distance between him and the worst cases. But since Sherlock's moved in with John Watson, he's felt, well, _weird_ about it.

When the door's opened by a surprised-looking John, Lestrade feels all the awkwardness of the situation.

"He's not here."

"Ah," Lestrade says uncomfortably. He rubs the back of his neck. "Right, then."

"New case already?"

"No, I wasn't here for…" He trails off. What is he here for, really?

"I don't know when he'll be back," John says. "He shouted something about going up to Glasgow when he passed me on the stairs."

"Glasgow?"

John shrugs resignedly. "He didn't say why."

Well, that's that. Lestrade turns to go.

"Look, you want to come in?" John says abruptly.

The thought of going home to his empty flat is unappealing. He hesitates, looks back at John.

"I've actually just put the kettle on." John gestures vaguely towards the kitchen. The offer seems sincere. Maybe John isn't keen on being alone either. And yes, Lestrade realises how much he sounds like a teenage girl right now.

It wouldn't hurt to get to know John better, he tells himself.

He's still standing there, so apparently he's decided to stay. John seems to assume he is and takes a step back so that Lestrade can move past him into the flat. Lestrade looks around. It's tidier than it was last time he was here. Either John is picking up after Sherlock now, or he's having a good influence on him. The possibility of anyone having influence over Sherlock Holmes is…concerning. All the more reason to get to know John; suss out how this strange partnership works.

While he's been looking around John's gone into the kitchen. Lestrade watches him getting out mugs. "Tea or coffee?" he calls.

Lestrade shoves his hands in his pockets. "Actually," he says somewhat sheepishly, "you don't happen to have any beer, do you?"

John turns and looks at him. "Drinking on the job, Inspector?" he asks archly.

Lestrade makes a show of looking at his watch. "It's after eight," he points out. "I'm damn well off the clock."

"Oh, right. So is this officially a social call, then?"

"Well, I wanted to go over a few aspects of the case with Sherlock before I prepare my final report, but as he's not here, I suppose it is."

John appears in the doorway and hands him an opened bottle. For a while they just drink companionably. John doesn't seem to need to make conversation for the sake of it. Lestrade's grateful for the peace and quiet. The beer is good. He assumes John bought it since he's never known Sherlock to drink alcohol. But then, it's not like Sherlock's ever offered him beer on his visits. Demanded Lestrade make him cups of tea, yes. He finds himself relaxing, work no longer occupying his mind, thinking instead how much he's looking forward to getting a good night's sleep, having a lie-in in the morning.

So he doesn't remember to be on his guard when John casually asks how he and Sherlock met, all those years ago. He describes their first encounter, his bemusement at the young prodigy. John listens avidly and encourages him to talk about cases Sherlock has helped the police out with (to be honest, solved for them). Lestrade finds himself telling John about the resentment his team feels when he calls on Sherlock for help, that they can't understand why Lestrade keeps letting Sherlock make fools of them. They don't understand that to Lestrade, solving the crimes -- saving lives -- is more important than his ego, or his career. He's heard the whispers behind his back; that he's incompetent, that he's riding the coattails of a civilian to make himself look good and he knows he won't be getting a promotion any time soon. John is smiling sympathetically and Lestrade knows he'll understand what his team doesn't; that it's worth it to him – that Sherlock's worth it. A mind as unique as his needs the right kind of stimulation –

"You're in love with him." There's no surprise in John's voice. No judgement either. Lestrade thinks he even detects a trace of pity. He doesn't want John's sympathy. He feels pathetic enough as it is. He thinks about trying to laugh it off, acting as though the very idea is too ridiculous. After all, this is Sherlock Holmes they're talking about -- arrogant, self-absorbed, self-confessed sociopath, though to be honest Lestrade thinks Sherlock just says that to be dramatic.

And apart from anything else, Lestrade's not gay, dammit.

Instead he stares deeply into his beer and tries to match John's matter-of-fact tone. "Am I that obvious?"

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shrug John gives as he stares into his own glass. Maybe John also finds it easier to have this conversation with the beer. "My observational skills have improved a lot since meeting Sherlock," John says. "Self defence."

"Great," Lestrade mutters.

"You know, if I know, he knows," John points out. Of course that's occurred to Lestrade. He tries not to dwell on it. John goes on. "Hell, he probably knew before you did."

"I realise that, thanks." He could probably do with being reminded of this more often. Maybe it'd help him get over this stupid infatuation.

"To be honest, I'm surprised he hasn't said anything."

"Maybe he does have a grain of tact in him after all," Lestrade says without much hope.

John looks at him incredulously.

"No, you're right. I don't know, maybe he's biding his time or something."

"It's possible." John looks thoughtful. "Or maybe…"

"What?"

"Maybe he really hasn't noticed. Sherlock doesn't do relationships, love. It's conceivable."

"What, not ever?" Lestrade's having trouble wrapping his brain around that.

"So he says."

It seems bizarre but he supposes it could be true. He hasn't ever known Sherlock to show interest in anyone, not in five years, and he's not unaware of what Donovan and the others say (sneer) about him. He just hasn't had a reason to give it much thought. It hasn't been relevant. "It's not very likely though, is it?" he says, getting back to the point. "That he somehow hasn't noticed, well, anything at all."

John leans over to put his empty glass on the floor then sits back and slides down further into the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. He winces slightly. Lestrade wonders if his leg is paining him. "Well, whatever he thinks he knows, it's still only a hypothesis," he says reassuringly. "As long as you don't act any different…"

"Wasn't planning on it," Lestrade says, possibly too emphatically.

"Hey if it helps, I didn't realise you were gay."

"That's because I'm not."

"But…"

"Trust me, I don't understand it either." Lestrade swallows the rest of his beer in one go. He shakes his head ruefully. "And _Sherlock_, of all people. I mean, what the hell?"

"Well, he is quite striking," John points out. "And he has this way of focusing all his attention on you – admittedly sometimes only so he can insult you – but when you have all of his attention, well, it's…irresistible."

Lestrade stares. "You?"

John grins sheepishly. "Mea culpa."

"Latin? Sherlock's rubbing off on you, John."

John waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Lestrade grins ruefully. "You know what I mean."

"I'm just saying: he's attractive. You'd have to be a straighter man than me not to notice."

"So you're not…?"

"In love with him?" John shrugs. "No. I'm not saying I couldn't be, but I'm certainly not looking to go there. Just being his friend is intense enough."

"But you fancy him?"

"God, yes."

"Somehow, it's good to know I'm not the only complete nutter around here. Want to get drunk and maudlin about our unrequited lust for possibly the only man in London not interested in sex?"

John snorts. "When you put it like that? Absolutely."

Lestrade figures it's his turn to get up and get more beer. In the kitchen he hesitates. "Is there anything in the fridge I should know about before I open the door?"

John cranes his head over the back of the sofa. "I don't think so," he calls. "It's possible I may just have become desensitised, though. If it helps, we now have a house rule about keeping all consumables on the top shelves."

"Above the severed heads, you mean," Lestrade mutters, and doesn't look down as he reaches for more beer. He doesn't _officially_ know about that head Sherlock had in there a couple of months ago. He hasn't checked, but he'd be prepared to bet that if he _did_ know about it officially, he'd have to do something about it. Lestrade shakes his head and grabs a six-pack. It'll save them getting up again for a while, anyway.

He doesn't remember who started it, but he does know neither of them are drunk enough to be able to claim later they didn't know what they were doing. No plausible deniability here.

John's mouth is hot against his, urgent, as though it's been a long time for him. God knows it's been long enough for Lestrade. It doesn't even seem to matter that this is a man he's kissing, that he's never even thought about kissing a man before. He hasn't even really thought about kissing Sherlock. Even now the thought of kissing Sherlock seems unreal, impossible. But thoughts of Sherlock don't belong here, not with John's tongue in his mouth, John's hand stroking his ribs -- somehow his shirt is half unbuttoned -- John's leg thrown over his, John's dick hard against his side. Lestrade grabs John's hip and pulls him closer, trying to pull him further on top of him because right now, he thinks that frottage is going to be enough, that getting their dicks rubbing against each other is the best idea in the world. If John doesn't get with the picture soon Lestrade's going to have to stop kissing long enough to explain what he wants and he doesn't want to do that. Not talking has worked well enough for them so far and he doesn't want to risk ruining the mood, not when he can't actually remember the last time he did this, felt this, felt this good.

When John's whole body goes stiff against him Lestrade's heart sinks. He opens his eyes and twists around to follow John's horrified stare, but he already knows what he's going to see.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Sherlock says urbanely. He is sprawled bonelessly in the ugly green armchair, long legs crossed at the ankle, fingers steepled pensively under his chin.

John makes an aborted move as though he can't decide whether to get up and flee or just try to sink through the sofa. Instinct makes Lestrade tighten his grip on John's hip, holding him hard against him. Sherlock's gaze is amused, yes, but there's something else going on there, something that makes Lestrade's breath catch, something that makes his heart stutter in his chest. He schools his expression to one of bland enquiry, and, holding Sherlock's eyes, slides his hand slowly from John's hip across to his belt buckle. Sherlock's eyes flicker. Lestrade raises a deliberate, challenging eyebrow, and casually undoes John's belt buckle. Sherlock's eyes narrow, and Lestrade hopes – prays – that he's not mistaking the flare of arousal he thinks he sees in them.

He's slowly unzipping John's pants now, and it seems to be this that breaks John's paralysis. His hand closes over Lestrade's, tightens. Lestrade reluctantly tears his eyes away from Sherlock's and looks back at John. John has a betrayed look on his face, and if Lestrade's not mistaken, there's something like shame in there too.

John hasn't known Sherlock long enough to be able to recognise the way Sherlock looks when something new and fascinating catches his interest. Or maybe he can't see past his embarrassment. Or maybe Lestrade's wrong. Maybe wishful thinking is making him see something more in Sherlock's rapt attention. For all he knows Sherlock's solving a case in his head right now just from watching two men snogging. For a moment he doubts himself, and he starts to feel uneasy, but when he looks back Sherlock is still in the same position, uncharacteristically silent, his eyes occasionally flickering from their faces to where John's hand still holds Lestrade's still. Lestrade is the first to admit he's no Sherlock Holmes, but he's been a detective a long time, and he has developed some observational skills and he's pretty sure that right now they have Sherlock's undivided attention.

Lestrade looks at John, at John's wide eyes, and tries to convey confidence as he leans towards him. John's eyes widen even more, impossibly so. His body tenses beneath Lestrade's arm and for a moment Lestrade is afraid that John will get up and leave.

"Trust me," he breathes, and sees the doubt, sees the moment John decides to try. John doesn't look towards Sherlock at all. His convulsive grip on Lestrade's hand abruptly relaxes, and his hand slides away, but not far. He wets his lips with his tongue; it seems more of a nervous gesture than a deliberately seductive one.

Lestrade leans forward and watches John's eyes slide closed as Lestrade kisses him again. John kisses him back, but his body is still tense and his dick isn't more than half hard under Lestrade's hand. Lestrade feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He thinks about upping the ante, going down on John, sucking him, but he's well aware of his own lack of experience, even from the other end; his ex-wife hadn't been keen on it and he's not sure he could take the humiliation now if it doesn't work.

John's trying, but it's obvious to Lestrade that this is a failure; best give it up as a bad job now, before things get any worse. Before someone says something none of them will be able to get past. As painful as Sherlock is, swanning about at crime scenes, alienating Lestrade's people, the fact is he saves lives, and that makes him indispensable. At least as far as Lestrade's concerned. Lestrade pulls back, leans his head against the back the couch. He closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn't want to see the others' expressions right now.

"Problem?" Sherlock asks coolly.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"On the contrary," Sherlock states, his voice as dispassionate as ever. "I believe the idea is sound." He smirks at them. "It's the execution that appears to be faulty."

"Oh, you think so?" Lestrade is abruptly fed up with the whole thing. John still hasn't said a word. Sherlock is finding fault in his technique apparently, though why Lestrade should be surprised about that he doesn't know. Lestrade was having a good time until Sherlock showed up, he likes John, whatever pathetic unrequited feelings he may have for Sherlock notwithstanding. Clearly John isn't comfortable with the idea of Sherlock watching them have sex, so Lestrade figures he's got nothing to lose when he says tiredly, "Sherlock, no offence but either sod off to bed or get over here and show us some of that execution if you think you can do better." He feels more than hears John's intake of breath.

Even knowing Sherlock as long as Lestrade has, the alacrity with which Sherlock gathers his feet under him and leaps off the chair towards them is disconcerting.

John pulls away, sits up. "Sherlock?" he says uncertainly.

Sherlock stops as though he's run into a wall. He stares down at John. "Problem?" he says again, his voice gone husky.

John stares up at him. The atmosphere seems suddenly heavy with emotion and Lestrade thinks that maybe John wasn't being completely honest with him earlier about his feelings for Sherlock. Lestrade feels stupid. He feels like the proverbial third wheel. The silence stretches interminably. He thinks the two of them have forgotten he's even there. He refuses to acknowledge any of the other feelings roiling in him, now is not the time to think about the fact that Sherlock apparently is capable of love. Not for him though, obviously.

For John.

He tries to move away from them unobtrusively. Lestrade's not sure what he can keep his face from revealing now; he doesn't want them to notice him. But of course it's Sherlock, so the man's eyes slide toward him immediately. "Where are you going?" he asks abruptly, and the thing is, the thing is, Lestrade bets he really doesn't understand why Lestrade is leaving.

John does though. "Stay," he says simply.

Lestrade sinks back into the sofa and stares at John, surprised. If Sherlock had looked at him the way he'd just been looking at John, he's not sure he could have made the same offer. He thinks he should refuse. He thinks he should have more pride. He hesitates, looking from one to the other.

Sherlock just stares at him, waiting.

John's looking at him. Lestrade expects him to be looking sympathetic, pitying, and steels himself to meet his look, but John's gaze is direct and very calm. Whatever passed unspoken between him and Sherlock seems to have settled something in him. "Stay," John asks – says – again. 'It's not a pity fuck," he says softly.

"Right," Lestrade says. Whatever.

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he tilts his head consideringly. "You believe we are offering to have sexual intercourse with you out of pity." Sherlock's carefully modulated voice seems to close crisply around the words. "You are mistaken." Sherlock's mouth crooks upwards, but for once the 'as usual' is unspoken. Lestrade hears it anyway, but nowadays the insult is more of an inside joke between them anyway, or at least Lestrade thinks Sherlock thinks it is.

"I am of course aware of your 'feelings' for me," Sherlock continues, and Lestrade manages to refrain from any outward reaction with an effort. "I am sure you have deduced that I cannot return your regard, at least in the way you would wish me to. I am, however, not averse to the prospect of a sexual relationship."

Only Sherlock could make suggesting having sex sound as impersonal as visiting a lawyer. Lestrade's getting less convinced by the second. "I thought…well…I thought sex wasn't something you _do_," he says, and then wonders why he's still sitting there, arguing about this.

"I have previously considered such matters to be irrelevant." Sherlock says, sounding a bit impatient. "However, as the opportunity appears to have presented itself, I am willing to have sex now. With you. And John, of course," he adds, as though that really shouldn't have needed saying but that he doesn't trust Lestrade (or, to be fair, anyone) to be able to draw the correct conclusion.

"Somehow you're not sweeping me off my feet."

"You would prefer I lie to you? Pretend an emotional attachment I am unable to feel? To what end?" He raises his eyebrows. "You wouldn't believe me anyway."

No, Lestrade wouldn't believe him. The idea of Sherlock pretending affection is frankly ludicrous. And Lestrade's only human, he's tempted. But he has to ask: "And is this a one time only offer?"

For the first time Sherlock looks uncertain. "I don't know," he says abruptly.

Lestrade blinks. "What?"

"He won't say it again," an amused voice interjects. Lestrade looks at John. He's smiling wryly.

Sherlock looks annoyed. "Obviously I am unable to make such a decision until I have enough data to make an informed judgement."

Lestrade blinks. Translation, he doesn't know if he'll like it yet. Well, there's only one way to find out. "All right," Lestrade says, and then wonders what the hell he's let himself in for.

Sherlock looks all together too pleased with himself, an expression both familiar and exasperating.

The sofa creaks as John shifts and Lestrade turns to see John staring at him, an expression of anticipation on his face. Lestrade feels a relieved grin spread across his own face. Without a word they shift apart to make room for Sherlock between them. Lestrade has the stray thought that it's really Sherlock and John who are making room for him. He thinks that's maybe fine with him.

Except Sherlock looks at the space they've made. "I don't think so," he says. "Obviously three adult males engaged, presumably, in somewhat strenuous physical activity will not fit on this sofa. In addition, given its age and condition, there is a significant risk that it may collapse. Not only would we be putting ourselves at risk of physical injury but I'm quite fond of this sofa and would regret the necessity of replacing it." With that Sherlock whirls and stalks off towards his bedroom, sliding his jacket off as he goes, leaving it crumpled on the floor.

Lestrade looks at John. John shrugs. Together they get up and follow Sherlock. Just like they always do. Lestrade thinks it's probably some sort of metaphor or something.

Later as Sherlock sleeps the sleep of the thoroughly fucked out, looking if possible even more smug than usual, and managing to sprawl possessively over both John and Lestrade, Lestrade looks over at John. John blinks back at him and yawns. "I think it's safe to say that went rather well, don't you?" he mumbles.

Lestrade smiles and looks at the dark head resting on John's outstretched arm. With those piercing eyes closed for once Lestrade feels free to let his eyes wander over Sherlock's face, not handsome exactly, smoothed out by sleep, little sign of the overwhelming personality in his features.

Lestrade wonders how he can feel so full of love and regret at the same time. He feels more comfortable here than he probably has any right to, which probably means it's time for him to go. He doesn't want to outstay his welcome. But when he gathers his muscles to move, the arm thrown over his chest tightens momentarily. "Don't move," Sherlock mumbles.

Lestrade freezes.

"You're thinking about leaving. Please try not to be so boringly predictable for once, my dear Lestrade."

He's confused. Sherlock's voice is as cool as ever, his words as dismissive. And yet, Sherlock's asking (well, telling) him not to leave. Sex is one thing, something people nowadays seem to just do, though Lestrade himself has never been able to regard it so casually, but the intimacy afterwards -- that, he can't help but think, is a whole other thing. Cautiously, he allows himself to feel hopeful. "All right," he says. When does he ever say no to Sherlock?

"John, make sure he doesn't leave," Sherlock demands.

"You heard the man," John says.

Lestrade realises that Sherlock's eyes are open, that he's being regarded narrowly through dark lashes. His heart does a confusing little leap in his chest and he feels momentarily breathless. He has no idea what his face is revealing now but the arm around him tightens again.

Sherlock's eyes have closed again, and it's like a light has been switched off. Lestrade doesn't care though, because by Sherlock's standards Lestrade thinks that was practically a declaration. As revelations go, it's probably not going to change the world, but all he can think of is Sherlock's claim of being unable to feel an emotional attachment. "My arse," he mutters.

"Is that an offer?" Sherlock murmurs.

John laughs.

Lestrade looks over at them both. John is smiling warmly at him. Sherlock's face is expressionless, but the corners of his mouth are turned up slightly.

It looks like he's now included in their little circle of two. For a moment he thinks about what it would be like if John wasn't there, if it was just him and Sherlock, and he realises that he wouldn't choose that even if he could. Lestrade can't be there for Sherlock like John can, and Lestrade's seen the way Sherlock lights up around John. He wouldn't wish him to be alone again, to be lonely, even if Sherlock would deny with his last breath that he ever was.

Lestrade thinks he should probably be jealous of what they have, but he isn't. He thinks he's a very lucky man.


End file.
